


The Benefactor: A Ballad of Mary

by Lochinvar



Series: Mary's World [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: American History, Awesome Mary Winchester, BAMF Dean Winchester, BAMF Mary Winchester, BAMF Sam Winchester, Background Case, Canon Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Cemetery, Clothing, Corruption, Crooked Politicians, Detectives, Dog Cops, Dragon's Blood, Executions described off-screen, Fashion & Couture, Fluff, Gen, Ghosts, Immigrants, Impala, Jewish Character, Knives, Law Enforcement, Leader Dean Winchester, Magic, Magical Artifacts, Magical Tattoos, Male Character of Color, Mary's Admirer, Minor Character Death, Mob Executions, Mobsters, No Smut, Not Canon Compliant, POV Original Character, POV Outsider, POV Third Person, Pagan Gods, Past Torture, Police Procedural, Protection Magic, Protective Jim Murphy, Service Dogs, Sigils, Slice of Life, Supernatural Procedural, Tattoos, Warding, charity - Freeform, police dogs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-02
Updated: 2019-02-16
Packaged: 2019-10-02 15:26:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 18,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17266697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lochinvar/pseuds/Lochinvar
Summary: When Mary and the boys take a case in small-town Wisconsin, they meet a good man who has his eye on Mary. And so what if he is 50 years older? The heart wants what the heart wants. And he sees and appreciates Sam and Dean as well.A work for people who like Mary Winchester and feel she needs more screen time.Case fic with murderous ghosts, evil mobsters, and the best fashion house in the Midwest. A little bit of humor and some Supernatural science. And a really fine police dog named Ernie.Own nothing; rely on the kindness of strangers.Kudos and comments appreciated - thank you.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [InTheGreySpaces](https://archiveofourown.org/users/InTheGreySpaces/gifts).



> [Changed the rating and add some new tags to cover some bad stuff in Chapter Six.]
> 
> Most of the action takes place in the suburbs and small towns west and north of Milwaukee, Wisconsin, with side trips to Detroit and the Chicago suburbs. Summer of 2020.
> 
> Started as a homage to my immigrant family and sort of grew.

Mary, Dean, and Sam Winchester got word of the case from Jeff Wagner, the police chief of the town of Kermit, Texas. Sam Winchester had lived there with his veterinarian girlfriend Amelia Richardson while Dean was in Purgatory. The younger brother had introduced Jeff to the Supernatural world after an altercation with the werewolf capo of a Mexican cartel.

[See [_The Wolf_.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3996766/chapters/8975116)]

Once upon a time Jeff had been a cop in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. When an old friend from the Badger State reached out to the officer for advice about suspicious goings-on in his small Wisconsin town, Jeff flipped to a special card in his ancient Rolodex®, the one with Sam Winchester’s #3 cell phone number and the letter “S” printed in the younger Winchester brother’s precise, college-era, note-keeping script. Jeff had drawn a rough sketch of a five-pointed sheriff’s badge in the upper right-hand corner as a reminder.

As if he could ever forget the sight of Sam thrusting a long, glowing, silver blade into the throat of a charging mythological beast.

Sam answered on the third ring. A few minutes to catch up–small-town gossip, Jeff’s new family, Sam’s reunion with Dean and their sister Mary (too much to explain over the phone), a brief but happy report regarding Amelia, her formerly MIA husband, and Riot the dog–and enough information to satisfy the Winchester family that Jeff had found them a legitimate case.

What’s more, said the police chief, the potential client, a business owner, was wealthy and willing to pay for services rendered, whether or not Sam and his siblings were successful. Jeff told Sam that he had informed the client that the Winchesters were trustworthy specialists in closing cases that baffled conventional law enforcement.

“Here’s the number; he’s waiting your call. Mr. Gimpel is a sweet old guy, but don’t let the George Burns shtick fool you. Smart and still the sharpest knife in the drawer.”

“And hey, come see us soon,” said the cheerful police chief. Had found new love with an ex-military nurse with violet eyes.

“When was the last time you chowed down on decent Tex-Mex burritos, smothered? And I wanna meet your brother and sister.”

Sam and Mary were all in. Credit card frauds were harder to pull off in the age of Internet malware and identity theft protection, as were barroom pool and dartboard hustles. Fewer innocents with money to spend on betting in questionable roadhouses. Sam called ahead and confirmed with Mr. Gimpel’s pleasant executive assistant, a woman named Tasha, that they would be driving out from Kansas, leaving within the hour.

Yes, said Sam to Tasha, all things being equal, just as fast as flying, given the distance to the airports in Omaha and Kansas City and the sparse scheduled flights between those airports and Milwaukee. And their car conveniently was loaded up with the equipment they would need for the investigation.

We’ll be there in a jiffy.

Did not mention Dean’s hatred of travel at 30,000 feet.

Tasha gave Sam the address of the suburban Milwaukee hotel where the Gimpel Corporation was putting them up. Asked some polite questions about their preferences.

A shared suite with three bedrooms sounds fine, said Sam.

Mary claimed shotgun in Baby’s spacious front seat before her sons had finished packing. Her Hunter parents drilled her on the importance of having a “go bag”, and it was a family joke that she took less time on her appearance than either of the boys.

She had raided the Bunker’s kitchen and snatched the portable beer cooler and Dean’s not very well-hidden grocery sack of tasty junk food. And, since she was a good mom, she stuffed a bag with fruit and protein bars for her baby Sammy as well.

Mary loved road trips with her children. Once Dean, under duress, had let his mother drive Baby on the way back from northern Illinois. She wove her way through Chicago’s maze of expressways during Friday afternoon rush hour. Did she shut her eyes, just for fun? Really?

(Yes, we know, what was Dean thinking? It never occurred to him that his Hunter mom would voodoo her boys, shamelessly, with relatively benign magic that she had picked up on the road. Got Dean to eat veggie pizzas without complaining and got Sam to take naps. And enjoyed the parental privilege of pranking both sons, one of the best payoffs of her resurrection.)

Sam, huddled in the back seat, chanted under his breath. At first Dean thought it was Enochian prayers. But he leaned back and cupped his ear. It was a prayer, of sorts, that his younger brother repeated over and over.

“We are going to die. We are going to die. We are going to die.” They didn’t, but Mary didn’t drive Baby again, except in emergencies.

\-----

The Impala was warded against the watchful radar of the highway patrol across four states, which meant Dean could aim Baby through the messy network of Heartland interstates at a steady 110 mph. He should have been happy, but he would not stop bitching.

“All rich guys are douche-bags” was his mantra, with few variations, mile after mile, until Mary threatened to dump him at the exit to an Interstate 80 truck stop in Iowa and let Sam drive on to Wisconsin without him.

After that, Dean shut up, mostly, not willing to risk testing his mom’s patience.

Dean changed his mind about rich guys after he met the client.


	2. The Family Business

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What kind of man would fall in love with Mary Winchester? Sort of like reading about the prince in Cinderella before Cinderella arrives on stage. If you are not into backstory, the case begins in the next chapter.

Solomon Gimpel was Solly to friends and family and pretty much everyone else.

He was short and thin, with a messy mop of silver hair, dark brown eyes, and a tinge of olive to his skin, suggesting the Mediterranean, Egypt, and Mesopotamia in the family’s distant past. Wore his 86 years well. Dressed as fit the scion of a clothing empire, with what Dean and Sam’s grandfather Henry might have called “pizazz”.

Solly was a rich man. A good man and a generous man, which was a blessing for the Wisconsin town that had welcomed his immigrant Jewish father, mother, and seven older siblings when he was a precocious little boy.

Never married. Poured his love into his extended tribe of siblings and their children, his business and the employees and customers, and his neighbors in the place he called home.

Solly tried to fund institutions anonymously through the family foundation, but everyone knew who was behind the pot of gold. Consequently, he insisted that the name  _Gimpel_ not appear on the facade of any building; he did not want to make him or his family out to be better than people who had less money to give.

Just how he was.

_The Community Hospital:_ best in the region. _The Community Library:_ winner of an embarrassing number of national awards for a small-town institution.  _The Community Symphony:_ a star in a state known for its support of local music. _The Community Vocational School:_ where young people learned skilled trades that could guarantee them decent wages without a college degree.

\-----

Solly’s family had fled Romania and its rampant anti-Semitism before World War II. (People forget that the politicians in that beautiful country would side with the Nazi regime for most of the conflict.)

His father, Albert Gimpel, was a tailor. Gave his name to his hole-in-the-wall shop, which handled everything from sewing on buttons for bachelors to re-upholstering couches for thrifty housewives to customizing store-bought suits and dresses for those who wanted a champagne wardrobe on a beer budget.

Mother Lillian had the eye and hand for fancy work. She specialized in the psychologically challenging task of wedding dress alterations for stressed-out brides–the ones who put on ten pounds in the weeks before the _Big Day._

The secret of Lillian’s success was her skill at hand stitching narrow panels of delicate chiffon, lace, and silk into fragile special-occasion dresses. Her wizardry could add a size without disturbing the aesthetics of the designer knock-offs that the weeping girls–and their frantic mothers–brought her...often with the wedding days away.

Even if it meant sewing all night, fueled by sugared and spiced Russian tea from a bottomless glass mug, Lillian would make certain she never missed a bridal deadline.

She would win a family’s loyalty for a lifetime.

\-----

Starting with one iconic design–a three-piece suit with two pair of trousers, constructed from good-quality, three-season wool–Albert and Lillian moved into the ready-made trade, growing the business one wardrobe item at a time. Added a summer sports jacket of blue hopsack and then, a simple knee-length dress with a matching fabric belt in black, navy, and beige, a stylish look that could be worn to work and dressed up for a date night. The first dresses were constructed of soft rayon challis, cut on the bias to move with the body, with classic lines that suited most figures.

From the beginning,  _Albert’s_ combined good taste, solid craftsmanship, small-town customer service, and an affordable price point. It became the household name for what are called investment pieces: classic clothes that stay in fashion regardless of trends in lapel size and skirt length.

The label became prized in upscale consignment stores; had the immortal cachet of class and quality. The best-dressed heroes and heroines of a 1930s movie epic would have worn _Albert’s_ suits and dresses, as well as a contemporary James Bond, male or female, or a hipster Marvel superhero that needed civilian clothes for a visit to the White House or Buckingham Palace.

Old-money bargain-hunters, ambitious college students, immigrant job seekers, and fashion-conscious middle managers rubbed shoulders at their stores, which welcomed them all.

After 70 years those earliest designs still would be available by special order.

\-----

_Albert’s_ reputation blossomed, and the storefront grew into a clothing company with 400 employees, from the high school kids who ran errands on the factory floor, to the stars of the sales staff who wore with style the clothing they sold in the flagship store in Milwaukee, to the accountants and marketing professionals in the business office.

Lillian Gimpel wanted a different outlet for her creativity. She repurposed an old warehouse on Milwaukee’s lakefront and cherry-picked the best of the dressmakers, some of whom had been with the company for decades, for what became an exclusive haute couture boutique. _Lillian’s_ talented staff designed clothing for once-in-a-lifetime events: society weddings, cotillions, inaugurations, and _Red-Carpet_ affairs.

An oil painting of the Gimpel matriarch, beautifully coifed and wearing a blue off-the-shoulder evening dress that matched her azure eyes, hung in _Lillian’s_ front lobby, a gift from her adoring children. The elite customers, who flew on private jets into Milwaukee’s cozy airport (with its huge bookstore and iconic ping pong table in the main terminal), drank imported coffee and tea out of bone china and nibbled on an assortment of petit fours, made by a Francophile bakery in Chicago. They waited to be escorted into the spacious showroom to view stock pieces and then to the fitting rooms for the first of several private consultations.

On the second floor a coven of designers, cutters, and seamstresses from a dozen countries clustered around long wooden tables and assembled original works of art in an enormous, airy, sunlit workroom that spanned the length and breadth of the entire building. They snipped, pinned, stitched, tatted, embroidered, and crocheted–and gossiped and argued, commenting on the news of the day–surrounded by a dragon’s horde of fabrics and ornamentation:  custom lace, beads, pearls, sequins, and rhinestones.

Behind the artisans hung a wall’s worth of sewing tools, which would have reminded a knowledgeable person of Baby’s spacious cache of exotic weapons.

Adjustable dressmaker mannequins stood on a raised wooden stage at the end of the room, like headless sentinels from another planet.

This was the same stage where the live models, picked based on how well their physical dimensions matched a particular client, would test the ensembles in front of a panel of critics from the production floor.  They would walk, trot, leap, kick, twist, bend, and swing their arms to ensure that the seams were immutable and would survive an evening of mambo and tango, swing and jive. Testing the gowns would guarantee that a human being could live in a _Lillian’s_ original comfortably, all before the customer tried it on for the last adjustments.

Two years on the waiting list for an appointment, even if you had diplomatic immunity and a Swiss bank account. But who complained when a _Lillian’s_ gown could earn the wearer a spot on the red carpet or a magazine cover? Or in the bed of minor royalty or a Super Bowl star?

Sometimes the talented staff contributed their skills to smaller projects: special occasion frocks that didn’t involve 500 hours of intense labor. Simpler, timeless designs for more modest budgets and closets, still crafted from luxurious fabrics with the legendary _Lillian’s_ eye for detail.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...one side of the family came from Romania; the other side from Belarus, fleeing the Czar and the pogroms. Some stayed in EasternEurope, and suffered the consequences during World War II. Both sides had artisans in the clothing business. No wealth as described in the story, but good hearts and generosity. I mashed together at least ten different family members and embellished. I think they would have liked it.
> 
> Also, am always interested how a successful business can start with a card table and an idea and grow to employ hundreds of people.


	3. The Factory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The old factory site where Solly plans to expand the family business is not what it seems. Introducing Ernie: Best. Police. Dog. Ever. (No dogs were hurt in the writing of this work, and there is a happy ending.)
> 
> The Winchesters will be arriving in the next chapter.

Solly joined the family business after returning from voluntary exile in Pennsylvania with an MBA and honors from the Wharton School. (Graduated high school at 14; finished seven years of higher ed in four.) Using emerging technologies and sound money management principles, over decades he evolved _Albert’s_ and _Lillian’s_ complementary businesses into profitable international clothing brands.

He and the family had kept the company’s work at home, taking over a bankrupt clothing manufacturing plant for _Albert’s_ ready-to-wear, a boon to the small-town economy in his corner of the Midwest, and his employees paid him back with loyalty and hard work.

The community celebrated when word went out that he was going to purchase and renovate the old tool-and-die plant at the edge of town, a silent ruin since World War I. In the day, the giant facility had produced precision tools for dozens of small industrial businesses and family-based custom job shops across northern Illinois, Wisconsin, Iowa, Michigan, and Minnesota.

The Gimpel family planned to turn the property into the most profitable clothing manufacturer in the Midwest. They had added onto the existing plant as the brand’s popularity grew, but it was time for a major expansion.

The factory site had stood abandoned for decades. It was a self-contained village with narrow streets paved with crumbling asphalt. There were wooden guard shacks, corrugated metal outbuildings for storage, and packed earth lots left empty for parking equipment and for the expansion of the original plant.

The main factory building was mostly broken walls and rubble, torn apart by decades of brutal Wisconsin winter storms and hot, humid summers.

An intimidating iron fence with industrial locks and chains on the gates surrounded the property. It had been built just before World War II by security-minded state and federal officials. It was a superior piece of industrial-era ironwork, with artistic flourishes in the form of what looked like three-dimensional interpretations of the kind of hex signs found on barns in Pennsylvania, art that had some say had originated in Germany. Made sense given the strong German influence in Wisconsin, particular in the region around the city of Milwaukee.

According to redacted government documents Solly’s law firm uncovered, there had been unsubstantiated reports of lights and noises on the abandoned grounds. Some thought the place could harbor the activities of native terrorists. So even though everyone suspected that poverty-driven squatters and teens looking for a forbidden adventure were the cause of the disturbances, the ironwork was installed, by coincidence containing what brooded on the property.

The Winchesters later told Solly that the smartest thing he unintentionally did was when he decided to let the iron fence stand.

Protected against human intervention for decades, the acreage was overgrown with a small prairie’s worth of weeds and junk trees. It also teemed with rodents, small birds, and larger opportunistic predators and scavengers, such as foxes, raccoons, skunks, feral cats, and raptors such as owls and small hawks.

It was a University of Wisconsin naturalist’s version of Heaven, which why the Gimpel family brought in specialists to help them decide how to carve out a small nature preserve on the property.

Curiously, one of the lots, a city-block long and wide behind a waist-high limestone fence, held nothing but bare earth. It once had been the site of a slaughterhouse. Had been torn down soon after. Nothing grew or nested there.

The scientists found microscopic traces of organic material, mostly dispersed in many cubic feet of sand and dirt. No one bothered to test the exact composition of the residue, except to note it was mammal in origin.

Soil and water samples from around the property showed no chemical contamination from the factory–a miracle according to the engineers hired to do the testing.

\-----

The heavy work began after the ground-breaking ceremony–the removal of tons of broken glass, wood, brick, and steel, all part of the former great factory, including the limestone slabs from the fence around the bare-earth lot.

It was then that the problems started.

Lost tools and sabotaged equipment, mistakes in purchase orders and blueprints. A series of small accidents resulting in in minor injuries, which brought out a couple of stern-faced _Occupational Safety and Health Administration (OSHA)_ inspectors from Madison, Wisconsin. They could find nothing wrong, but they told Solly, who had flown in from the family’s summer home in La Veta, Colorado, that it would look better if they fined the company for some minor infractions. He paid the fines and cancelled his vacation.

Construction workers began to quit. They complained of things they saw and heard at dawn and dusk in the shadows of broken walls and near pits carved into the sandy loam where the substructure of the factory was being removed.

It was about this time that the wildlife fled. After a few days on the job, the workers could sit on the tailgates of their trucks at meal and coffee breaks and throw bread crusts and broken cookies to a menagerie of fearless furry and feathered critters, while red-tailed hawks and crows patrolled the skies. Got so that the braver birds and fauna would be waiting for the humans to arrive in the morning, the same humans that were finding it necessary to bring extra donuts for their breakfast buddies.

And the next day, they were gone. The overgrown fields at the edges of the property were empty, as if a plague had swept the land. Some of the crews walked into the deserted brush and prairie grass, half-expecting to see bodies piled up, suspecting some unknown poison had killed their friends. But the missing wildlife left no traces.

The situation grew worse, culminating in the death of a skilled crane operator. He was found slumped over in the seat of his machine at the beginning of an early morning shift. Not a mark on him, but a look of terror on his face. It appeared he died of a heart attack, but he was young and healthy. The coroner was suspicious.

Solly immediately shut down the site.  For days, federal inspectors, insurance investigators, forensic scientists, and police detectives invaded the property, crawling over acres of debris with tweezers and high-tech scanning equipment.

Informally, the place gave the professionals the creeps. At night, over local beer, fried cheese curds, creamy cole slaw, and droves of sausages, in the best tavern in town, the men and women on the case bonded. And admitted to each other that they also heard and saw…things. Shadows and noises.

\-----

The last straw was when an experienced K-9 officer and its human handler, Elijah Turner, were recruited from a police force in suburban Chicago. Ernie, a Malinois named after the beloved  _Chicago Cubs_ star, had already been awarded a citation for bravery, having brought down a suspect firing a gun at his human partner.

A graceful muscular dog with alligator jaws, the breed likes to bite. Smarter than most of its human colleagues, according to its proud partner.

The able dog was in search mode, roaming off leash. It came within a hundred feet of the barren square of bare earth, now void of the limestone walls. Stopped, barked, then whimpered, turned, and fled back towards the makeshift parking lot a few hundred yards away, tail between its legs, Officer Turner in hot pursuit.

Ernie leapt through an open window into the back seat of the patrol car and curled up in a tight ball. Would not respond to treats or the reassuring touch of its upset human. Elijah advised the law enforcement officers on the site, who had hurried to the patrol car to find out how the dog was, to take his canine partner’s response seriously.

"Some thing is here. Or things," the dog’s human partner said.

Elijah drove off a little too fast down one of the newly paved side roads and out the one iron gate that was left open during the day. Did not stop until they were home. Ernie spent the night in lap dog mode, his head buried in the crook of Elijah’s neck, his loving human holding him tight.

\-----

It was never discussed, but after the incident with the dog the remaining investigators worked only in pairs. Never alone.

Another week went by. The state police crime scene experts and other investigators began to trickle back to their respective home bases. The autopsy results on the crane operator remained inconclusive.

Solly hired guards, but they were ordered to stay outside the perimeter of the iron fence regardless of what they heard and saw between dusk and dawn on the property. “No Trespassing” signs were posted. All of the gates had fresh locks and chains.


	4. The Investigators

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Winchesters arrive. Solly falls in love.

Solly was feeling hopeful for the first time since before the initial incident reports were sent to the family’s rural vacation home. The forensic specialists had showed up, the ones recommended by longtime friend Jeff Wagner.

The cop and the millionaire CEO had met at a charity dinner when Jeff was fresh from the Academy and given babysitting duty for the event. As usual, Solly was interested in everybody and everything, not just the bigwigs. He chatted with the young cop and offered him his card, which Jeff later likened to the magic “Golden Ticket” in the children’s novel and movie  _Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory._

For the next thirty years, the two men secretly conspired. Whenever Jeff ran into one of those special situations typical of what a policeman saw on the job, a phone call to Solly was all it took for a quick response, usually in 24 hours or less. A high-end wheelchair for a paralyzed veteran who had waited months for help. A truckload of food to a homeless shelter that temporarily had lost their funding because of a typo in a grant proposal. Motel vouchers for a month for a family of five while they waited for their mom’s first paycheck from the new job.

A crooked politician found himself outspent by an honest newcomer and lost his first election in 20 years. The newcomer did not know where the PAC money came from; was only told: Do a good job for the people in your community. No strings attached.

No red tape. Nothing to sign. No embarrassing interviews to justify a need to a government or religious or nonprofit bureaucrat. No one to thank or pay back. No obligation.

When Jeff retired and moved to Texas, he took aside a young protégé, a young African-American woman named Alexandra, and passed along a new copy of the card with Solly’s blessing.

Milwaukee needed all the help it could get.

Jeff was happy to hear from Solly. Planned to bring his new wife up to Wisconsin to meet him some day.

\-----

The old businessman booked a suite of rooms for them in a better-than-mid-range hotel in a prosperous western Milwaukee suburb, a 45-minute drive east of his town.

They turned out to be a family of private investigators–two brothers and a sister: Dean, Sam, and Mary Winchester.

They shared head-turning good looks and atrocious fashion sense. The trio wore what Solly assumed were their working field uniforms: layers of t-shirts with the logos of prehistoric rock bands, plaid flannel shirts, and canvas jackets and distressed denim jeans bleached pale blue from repeated washings in small-town laundromats with toxic generic laundry soap. Regardless, all three moved with the liquid grace of professional dancers or martial arts experts. Silk and steel. Military. Special Forces, maybe.

Solly had dressed his share of active and retired warriors. Thank you for your service, he would say to the heroes, male and female, who came to buy nice outfits for their first civilian jobs. A rite of passage for many Heartland military families, drawn by tradition and the deep, deep discounts the Gimpel family offered.

 _Albert’s_ was a store that would custom-fit their suits around lost limbs, prosthetics, and wheelchairs at no extra charge. In private dressing rooms in the main store, they would be treated as the same class of celebrities as those that could be found discussing the latest gossip from Cannes and Hollywood and Dubai at _Lillian’s._

Nice snacks and soft drinks for the adults and children. (A bowl of water and special biscuits for the watchful service dogs that accompanied their humans.)

Thank you for your service.

\-----

After they arrived at the hotel the Winchesters met with Solly for about an hour, discussing what Solly knew second-hand about the case. Before they looked over the reports, they decided to drive out to the property and kick the tires themselves. Solly went with them.

The Winchesters and the old businessman fell into an easy camaraderie when they discovered his intelligence and his wry sense of humor. He and Mary flirted. She was fascinated by his life and asked insightful questions. He guessed she could ask insightful questions about anything. He made jokes just to see her smile.

At one point, the shorter brother, Dean, the one with the green eyes and freckles and perfectly proportioned _Golden Mean_ features, asked Solly what his intentions were. The taller brother Sam elbowed him in his ribs fiercely, causing Dean to swerve the big Impala. Dean pouted for five seconds while Sam laughed, and Mary smiled a big smile at Solly that made her pretty eyes glow.

The trio poked around the real estate for a couple of hours and spent a few minutes talking with the the guards. Solly walked with them and answered whatever questions he could. The Winchester siblings seemed as interested in the iron fence surrounding the property as they were in the actual sites of the mysterious events.

They took numerous cellophone photos, including at the exact location where employees found the body of the dead contractor. Dean and Mary employed handheld devices that blinked and whirred repeatedly. Sam opened a small suitcase that turned out to be a miniature chemistry set, similar to what the environmental scientists had carried when testing the soil on the property. The difference, the sharp-eyed old man noticed, was that many of the bottles were labeled in Hebrew and stamped with a six-pointed star: _The Shield of David._ He assumed, at the time, that it was the logo of some Israeli chemical company.

Sam dropped teaspoons of dirt into test tubes, added water from a stoppered bottle marked with a cross and a few drops from one of the marked vials and swirled the result. Muttered to himself when the slurry turned violet.

When asked what he was looking for, Sam replied “Sulphur”.

\-----

They returned to the hotel. The old man was surprised how quickly they made it back in that lovely classic car. He had been busy chatting with Mary; maybe Dean employed a short cut?

\-----

As was his habit, Solly enjoyed mentally dressing people, day-dreaming how he could improve on what they were wearing. He easily pictured the brothers in British-style suits that took advantage of their broad shoulders and slender but muscular builds. Fine tweeds. Natural colors. Shirts of Egyptian cotton and Irish linen, something with weight and texture. Silk ties, of course. Soft blues and greens, deep golds and muted reds to complement the color of their hair and eyes. Clothing to turn heads. Anything would look good on them. It would be fun to show off what the Gimpel artisans could do.

But it was sister Mary who truly fired up Solly’s designer imagination. A blonde in her early 30s with strong, sculpted features and a dancer’s body. Her eye shifted from blue to gray depending on the lighting and her mood. Despite a haircut that looked as if she had stuck her head in a ceiling fan and little makeup, she was beautiful. Very beautiful. Sad eyes. Another warrior.

He thought of the professional women athletes that  _Albert’s_ and _Lillian’s_ had dressed­: Olympic-level gymnasts, boxers, swimmers, basketball players, and track and field stars. The ballerinas and Broadway divas. The working military and law enforcement. Firefighters and EMTs.

We could create outfits that she could move in and work in. Need to do that fine body justice, Solly thought. Show off her beauty.  
  
Mary deserved more than the tomboyish clothes that she apparently had lifted from her brothers’ closet: jeans and two layers of flannel. And yet she wore them well, sharing her family’s grace and power. Good genes, he assumed.

Solly decided that regardless of the outcome, he would gift the family with nice things. Everyone deserved nice things.

\-----

At the Winchesters’ request, the old man had gathered two dozen employees in a meeting room at the suburban hotel to be interviewed by the Winchesters, including department heads from his executive team and those men and women who had been at the front lines in charge of tearing down the factory.

Everyone attending had witnessed _something_ at the site first hand.

A couple of grizzled detectives, Kenny and Pete, who worked for the Milwaukee police department, best friends since their Academy days, took advantage of a trove of unused vacation time to attend the meeting, invited by Solly after a four-way long-distance conversation with Jeff Wagner, their beer-drinking buddy in the day.

Kenny and Pete had been part of the investigative team sent in to figure out what the hell was going on at the factory site; neither detective was satisfied with the preliminary reports. They decided that this was going to turn out to be more than illegal hazardous waste dumping or smartass teenagers. Their curiosity was piqued. A case with high-entertainment value for the competent but jaded police officers.

Their relatives and closest friends collectively went bonkers when they heard the duo were going to be working with the Gimpel family. The detectives’ smart phones were filled with texts detailing sizes and color preferences.

The bottom line? _Don’t much care what you buy. Anything from_ Albert’s _is better than good. P.S. Ask for the discount!_

_\-----_

Ernie's human, Elijah Turner, had driven up from Illinois, wanting to find out what had spooked his fearless canine partner. He asked to be included in any follow-up; Solly called him personally.

The former soldier was born and raised on Chicago’s South Side and had escaped poverty and the gangs by enlisting in the Army, where he discovered his knack for dealing with dogs. Brought his expertise back to his civilian life as a police officer.

Elijah was a good man, but lonely. He lived with his parents and had few friends outside of the police force and immediate family. His mom wanted him to settle down with the right girl. He couldn’t bring himself to tell her why that was not going to happen.

His K-9 partner stayed home with his parents in a suburban neighborhood with a green backyard for Ernie to play in. The dog remained on edge after the encounter at the factory site. The police department where they worked was happy to offer both man and canine an open-ended medical leave of absence. His boss hoped Ernie would recover his confidence. No one seemed to know what happened to the formerly courageous dog.

Take your time, said their sergeant. There’s a job for both of you when you decide to come back.

He knew better that to expect the devoted Officer Turner would return to work without his best friend.

During the first meeting at the hotel, Elijah kept dropping his hand to pet a furry head that wasn’t there.

\-----

The plan was to work the rest of the day and into the next, if it was necessary. Dinner would be served at nightfall. Solly had booked rooms for the out-of-towners, but everyone was invited to stay.

Because he was Solly Gimpel, genetically predisposed to be concerned about famine, the Czar’s army cutting off the food supply to the village, and long Eastern European winters, there was food: a groaning sideboard covered with a lavish spread of sandwiches, salads, and desserts. Coffee, tea, juices, and soft drinks were available. The good stuff.

No one ever went hungry on his watch.

Dean Winchester apparently was very happy. Under the disapproving glares of his siblings, he piled a plate high with warm prime rib sandwiches served with horseradish mayo on dark rye (Solly’s favorite). He eyed the Door County cherry pie with predatory interest.

“We do feed him at home. Well, we try,” apologized brother Sam, who nibbled at a fruit salad and dipped carrot sticks into homemade hummus.

Mary rolled her eyes at both her brothers and smiled at the smitten Solly.

Mary Winchester. The old man was in love, and if he had been 40 years younger, he would have been planning the proposal dinner. And designing the dress she would wear. Something in French blue to match the shifting color of her eyes. Crafted of a heavy woven silk with drape and flow, hemmed flirtatiously above the knee, fitted to show off her athletic build. A dress that would hug her body and a circular skirt that would twirl as he spun her around for the dance floor.

Yes, she was a head taller. Didn’t care, and he didn’t think she would either.

Did not want to embarrass himself, or the lovely woman, but Solly’s eyes strayed to her during the meeting, more often than not.


	5. Waking the Dead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam shows off his research skills while Dean and Mary question the witnesses. And now they know what they are dealing with. Solly continues to speculate about the Winchester family.

The trio took turns interviewing the participants at the meeting, but Solly noticed that the brothers deferred to their younger sister.

The investigators wrote on legal pads and typed into their devices. The Milwaukee police officers, Kenny and Pete, and Officer Elijah Turner scribbled in their cop notebooks. The rest of the group sat spell-bound as the stories unfolded, eagerly wait for their turns to share their experiences.

Sam Winchester had hazel eyes and a mane of sun-streaked auburn hair that made him look like the hero of a 19thcentury romance novel. He took copious notes on his fancy laptop, the indestructible kind that modern soldiers take into the battlefield.

He also conducted research as people talked, digging into bookmarked websites and databases to verify facts and chase down hunches. Sometimes Mary or Dean would get up and drift behind him, peering at the screen and making a whispered suggestion. Seamlessly handing off the questioning to the other sibling until returning to their seat.

Solly, who knew a little about technology (not the Luddite that some people expected men and women of his generation to be) recognized an attached device that gave Sam’s computer direct access to the Internet via satellite, bypassing the hotel’s wifi. Sped up searches and downloads by a factor of 100.

At first, their lines of inquiry repeated the same questions that any competent detective would have asked. Just the facts. Who, what, when, and where. Details. Seeking patterns. Asking a question and then seeking corroboration from the other people at the big table.

So, you heard noises just as you were finishing your shift? What time was that? Had they happened before? How long did they last? Did these events happen only before dawn and after dusk?

What direction did the noises come from? Did they move around, get louder or softer? What did they sound like? Did you see anything while you heard the sounds? Did it sound like voices? Mechanical or machine noises? Animal noises? Did they repeat? How long did they last again?

Did you see moving lights, like someone was carrying a flashlight or lantern? How did the lights move: together in a pattern, or randomly? How many lights were there? What colors? How long did they last?

You said your toolbox went missing, and when you found it, it looked like the tools had been etched in acid? Random documents had been pulled from a locked file cabinet and shredded on the floor of the office in the office trailer? The tires on one of the tractors were punctured? Did you see any footprints? Anything else disturbed

But then, the conversation took a left-hand turn into fairy tale territory. That’s how it felt to Solly, at least in the beginning.

Did you smell anything unusual? Like rotten eggs, you know, like sulphur? Or coppery, like blood? Or something old and dusty, like you would imagine a mummy would smell? Spicy, like old herbs? Or noxious, like rotting flesh or a gas leak?

Did you feel a cold draft in a room with no open windows or doors? Did the temperature of the area where you were working suddenly drop, and you could see your breath? Did you see ice forming on the windows of your car? Your office?

Did you see animal tracks? Big ones? With claws?

How were the wild animals behaving before they left? When did they flee? Did they flee when the noises started? Did the birds fly away first? They are gone? All gone? Have any returned? Any dead bodies? Any mangled bodies?

Did you see someone or something, out of the corner of your eye, but when you turned to look, they were gone?

Did you hear someone, or something, call your name? Was it someone you know? Someone dead?

Did something try to scare you? Touch you? Push you? Grab you? Trip you? Throw you to the ground? Hold you down? Rip your clothing? Try to hurt you?

Did objects move on their own?

Did you see something, and then it disappeared in front of you?

Did other employees and contractors and investigators tell you, officially and unofficially, stories that seemed exaggerated or outlandish at the time? What were the rumors and gossip that you dismissed at the time?

Solly grew up in a secular Jewish home, where belief was about heritage and culture and ethics rather than faith and religion. He considered himself a pragmatist and was beginning to question Jeff Wagner’s judgment. Did he send a team of deluded _Ghostbusters_ to the rescue? Was the Milwaukee ex-cop back in Texas treating Solly’s concerns with benign contempt, humoring an old man?

But, then the old man watched and listened to how the rest of the group reacted to the interrogation. The faces around the table changed as the tone of the questions change. People began to raise their hands, asking for time to share their stories. They interrupted each other.

Yes. Yes. Yes. Me, too. Me, too.

The stories tumbled out. A roomful of witnesses, good and smart and honest men and women, told the investigators what they saw and heard: Ghosts.

Elijah Turner shared how his brave canine partner, which on more than one occasion had ran headlong into danger to take down a suspect, still was recovering from the encounter with whatever terrified the otherwise courageous dog.

Even at his home with the doggie heaven backyard, where fat Chicagoland chipmunks lurked and begged to be chased, Ernie would not leave the house without his human grandparents watching over him at his side. And when they went into the house, the dog followed, tail between its legs.

Sam typed, while Dean and Mary took handwritten notes and nodded. Kind and concerned. Not their first time interviewing people who had seen and heard things.

You can tell me. I will believe you.

Tell me more. Tell me more.

The witnesses saw men dressed in old suits–costumed from before the first World War. Solly was fascinated; his employees, educated in the history of fashion, were able to give detailed descriptions.

Vests over club-collared striped shirts, under patterned wool suits. Two-tone shoes. Homburgs and derbies and straw boaters. The people looked like faded sepia photographs, pale and monochromatic.

But then the conversation turned darker.

Throats marked with the cruel garrote, dripping blood. Some still carrying a knife through the heart, stuck up to the hilt. Hands cut off, eyes burned out. Bodies set on fire. Splashed with acid. Tortured to death. Those nifty clothes in shreds, hanging off of skeletons.

All of the wraiths smiling.  Every day getting braver. Stronger. Less ethereal. Appearing at dusk, staying longer, but still vanishing at dawn with the first fingers of the morning sun reaching out to touch them.

The floodgates opened, and the men and women talked over each other to add more details. The investigators let them vent. Solly watched and listened silently.

The rhythms, the way the brothers and sister talked, the pauses between sentences, how they phrased their questions–it was as if they were musicians in the same orchestra, playing for an invisible conductor.

Solly speculated that the Winchester siblings all had served in the same branch of the military, gone through the same training. Perhaps their parents were military, law enforcement, investigators? Perhaps they had grown up in the family business, saving lives while they dealt with the unimaginable.

Wondered what their parents were like. If they were still alive.

One of the managers in the room, Helen Bishop, was a woman Solly had plucked out of a diner where she was waitressing to support her three kids, twenty years before. She had impressed Solly with her intelligence; he was a genius at recognizing talent. On the spot he had offered Helen a college scholarship and an allowance to support her family. She majored in business and turned out to have a head for numbers. No strings, he said. But she insisted on paying him back by coming to work for him as an accountant, and they both were glad she did.

He respected her, and so when this rock-ribbed, level-headed, strong, and rational woman described the well-dressed decaying corpse, walking and talking, which materialized one evening in the shed where she managed payroll and expenses for the site and told how it had pushed over a tall file cabinet, shattered the desk where she had been working minutes before, Solly believed.

He noticed that the three investigators, including the lovely Mary, did not flinch at the more gruesome details. Like the doctors at the Community Hospital, discussing an operation. Or an autopsy.

Dean held up his hand. The room fell silent. At first, Solly had dismissed him as the class clown of the family. He changed his mind by the end of the meeting.

“We have enough,” Dean said. “We’re obviously dealing with some very angry ghosts, who were tortured and murdered, maybe over a period of years, and buried somewhere on the property. They also are strong ghosts, since they can materialize and even become corporeal. Solid, not just a spirit hologram. And their ability to move objects apparently is improving. They are growing stronger.”

No one, including Solly, seemed surprised.

Sam, tapping rapidly on his computer, stopped and smiled.

“Not murdered, Dean, executed, and probably formally cursed. Let me do some more research,” said Sam, and he began typing again, staring intently at the screen of his laptop.

Solly stood up.

“This calls for something stronger than tea and coffee,” the elderly businessman said.

“Let’s take a break.”

Mary and Dean quietly conferred, and Sam kept typing.

Solly called the hotel’s hospitality office on the house phone in the meeting room and asked for a cart of assorted beers, a couple bottles of good brandy (German Wisconsin’s beverage of choice), and a shelf’s worth of assorted liqueurs, wines, and other drinkables to be delivered to the meeting room, with mixers, of course, and the necessary bartender tools.

And more snacks in the form of fried cheese curds and a really nice platter of sliced cheese and cold cuts and dark breads… and miniature bratwurst sausages on toothpicks, to which Dean pledged his undying love. His sister stopped him after he filled his second plate to overflowing.

“Sorry, Mom,” he said, around a mouthful of meaty goodness.

Mary smiled indulgently. Solly got the sense that the lovely blonde woman served as a surrogate mother for the boys while they were growing up.

 _Mom_ was an affectionate nickname, he assumed.

\-----

Solly could turn out a mean brandy old-fashioned sour on the rocks. Pretty much the state date drink of Wisconsin.   
  
The Winchester family, including Mary, went for straight shots of the decent bourbon, washed down with foaming glasses of _Leinenkugel_ beer.

\-----

Up to this point, the two seasoned Milwaukee detectives, Kenny and Pete, had said nothing except to report without emotion what they had seen and heard. They had been jotting their own notes until the conversation veered off into the discussion of the Supernatural, which is when they closed their notebooks and just listened. They did not disagree with the line of questioning.  They both had seen their own versions of _The Twilight Zone_ over the decades.

One of them went to talk with Dean and Mary while the other one stood behind Sam, watching images and text appearing on the screen and leaning over to point and whisper in his ear.

Sam nodded and typed even faster.


	6. The Bone Yard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solly, his employees, and the visiting policemen learn more than they ever wanted to know about the Supernatural. Sam is impressive, and Solly is mesmerized by Mary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I upped the rating to Teen, because of some graphic discussion of burial methods in this chapter. Within the canon, but a little grisly.
> 
> If you like, skip the chapter and read the notes at the end.

Solly pulled back and watched, letting the group dynamics flow unimpeded.

The Winchesters ended up huddling with the two gray-haired Milwaukee cops. Took them about 30 minutes to come to a decision. The rest of the group ate and drank and talked about work. Elijah Turner sat alone, looking as if he was lost without his faithful partner Ernie. One of the Gimpel managers went to sit next to him, and pretty soon they were talking about dogs and baseball and the upcoming football season and the weather…and dogs.

Mary was the one who brought the group back to order. She pointed to her brother Sam and sat down.

Sam stood up, looking serious, and, Solly thought, damn tall.

“To be brief,” he said, and his green-eyed brother rolled his eyes so hard that Sam turned and glared at him. They mouthed the words “bitch” and “jerk” at each other, and Mary used her proximity to Dean to swat him on the back of the head with a pad of legal-sized paper. Hard enough for him to yelp manfully. The group snickered, including Sam. Their little _Punch and Judy_ show broke the tension.

Maybe, Solly thought, Dean played the fool for that reason.

“Please,” said Solly, and waved at Sam to start again.  
  
The tall investigator commanded the group’s attention, his broad hands embroidering the air with ideas and images. Solly thought it was easy to see the brilliant Stanford pre-law student that Mary had boasted about during their conversations earlier in the day. Wondered in passing if Sam would ever want to continue law school and how Solly might help.

“I think,” Sam began, and Kenny and Pete nodded in unison.

“We think,” he corrected himself, paused, and continued.

“We think that the empty plot of land on the property is what people once called the _Bone Yard,_ a legendary burial ground thought to be a myth. It purportedly was the _Boot Hill_ for the worst of the ethnic gangs and organized crime syndicates that controlled commerce in the corridor between Chicago and Milwaukee before, during, and after World War I. That confederation of bad guys also included groups of thugs and enforcers assembled by elected and appointed officials to further their political goals.

“So get this...These groups had two major problems. First, execution, usually after a session of torture, was common enough that they had a surfeit of bodies, and it was in their best interests for the victims to disappear rather than clutter up urban back alleys. Didn’t want an excuse for the Federal government to invade their domains. Fortunately for them, these were people that, for the most part, would not be missed.

“The second problem was that most of the people who were being killed were bad people. Very bad people. Murderers themselves, in many cases. The worst of the worst, unworthy of the comfort of a burial in holy ground with a religious service to smooth the soul’s way to its Heavenly reward.

“Criminals, as a class, are notoriously superstitious. According to the lore, someone came up with the idea of staking out a shared no man’s land, a cursed cemetery in neutral territory, somewhere to dump the bodies, and, more importantly, to contain those angry souls that did not make it to Hell.

“A truce was called, and three trusted lieutenants representing three of the region’s most prominent gangs were tasked with finding the best place.

“The land on the factory’s property was ideal. The town was geographically isolated but still close enough to Milwaukee and Chicago to be reached in a few hours, even given the slower transportation available in the day. The site itself was a busy place, with cars and wagons moving in and out at all hours of the day and night, and no one kept track of who or what or why.

“With a hefty payment to the owners, the plot was set aside. No one asked questions. They knew better.

"An abandoned slaughterhouse was on the property, the walls still standing with a wooden plank floor. One city block’s worth of empty. Sandy loam, easy to dig, four feet deep, and below that more sand and clay. A long way to bedrock. They boarded up the windows and took out the planks. Pretended to be rebuilding; each body was hidden in a delivery of the cheapest soft wood lumber, scrap that was good for nothing. No one noticed. If they did, they didn’t ask questions.

"Before dawn, they would drain the corpses of blood and run the bones and flesh through a wood chipper with the scrap wood mixed with lime. Dig a hole at least six feet deep, dump the ground-up remains mixed with the wood and lime, cover them with more lime, and fill the hole with sandy loam. The lime helped mask the odors of disintegrating flesh.  
  
"A typical city block in a big Midwestern city is 217,800 square feet. Plenty of room for hundreds of burials when you don’t have to worry about a coffin and gravesite.

“The capos who supervised the site had a sense of humor. Stenciled _The Bone Yard_ over the front door of the old slaughterhouse."

Sam stopped and took a breath. Looked around the room as did Solly, while the rest of the group fixed their attention on the tall man. No one dissented. No one asked a question. But some of the civilians in the audience were listing south under Sam’s Truce Crime narrative, turning pale. Suddenly, those piles of rare roast beef didn’t looks so appealing. 

Dean and Mary, in tandem, gave their brother “The Look”, and Sam stopped before launching into yet more grisly detail. Solly found out later that Sam held an unnatural fascination for serial killers. His puppyish enthusiasm for psychopaths was a tad disconcerting: the darker side of his scholarly focus on anything he found worth studying, which was pretty much anything.

TMI, Dean mouthed.

Sam paused a beat, looked at the audience, sighed, and closed the gruesome forensic slide show on his computer that he was about to share. 

He continued, G-rated.

“We know this much because an investigative reporter from one of the Chicago newspapers wrote and published an exposé of the _Bone Yard,_ except his story left out the exact location. He implied, perhaps for his own protection and that of the informants he interviewed, that it was near a lakefront industrial harbor, like the notorious mobster burial grounds with ocean views in New Jersey and New York.

“Many of the community’s business and political leadership denounced his article as libelous fiction that stained the city’s reputation. The same people, it turned out, with ties to the criminal element in the region. Probably had their own problems buried in the bloody loam.

“The reporter disappeared. And that was the end of the investigation. Today, the story might have been labeled as ‘fake news’.

“Here’s what we think happened. That part the reporter didn’t know or chose not to write about? Probably thought it would have made his story that much more unbelievable. Or maybe he didn’t believe what he dug up. (Excuse the pun.)

“Somebody with some experience coping with black magic, maybe a priest or pastor or rabbi, or a witch from the old country, knew enough to enclose the entire block with the limestone wall, an easy fix with the abundance of quarries in the region. The spirits could act out, but they were contained within the perimeter of the limestone slabs.  
  
"But the mobsters didn’t know enough to realize that they also had needed to salt and burn the bodies. If they had, they would have picked a more isolated location. The frequent fires would have drawn the attention of local authorities.  
  
“At some point, the burials stopped, around the time the factory closed. The number of executions had tapered off as the gangs dissolved or merged, the politicians went mainstream (elections could be stolen with a checkbook), and there probably were justifiable concerns that without the bustling factory, more people would notice the curious activity at the closed slaughterhouse.

“The building on the property, erected as a façade to hide the capos’ activities, collapsed, and the wood was hauled away to for fuel. The soil, poisoned by the cursed remains and the excessive amounts of lime, lay fallow.

“The iron fence was erected around the entire property to keep potential terrorists out, but we think someone knew more. Did any of you notice the fancy ironwork, the symbols that are incorporated into the finials on top of the posts and pickets? Just in case something evil needed to be kept in or out? It might have been the work of old-world craftsmen whose ancestors, for generations, incorporated sigils and wardings into their designs without knowing why.

“And then, Mr. Gimpel, with respect, you and your team removed the limestone walls.

“I reviewed the autopsy results of the contractor who died.  A better, more thorough examination by a friend of ours from the Cook County Medical Examiner’s office revealed that the victim had a burst aortic aneurysm. It would have ruptured eventually without the scare from the ghost, and chances are he wouldn’t have survived even if he had not been alone. You are not responsible for his death, Mr. Gimpel.”

Solly shook his head and looked away with tears in his eyes. He had made sure the contractor’s family received compensation above and beyond the usual insurance payout. Regardless of the pre-existing condition, he held himself accountable. He looked up to see Mary gazing at him with compassion and understanding.

He felt she had experienced this kind of grief before. Good intentions leading to irreversible mistakes.  
  
Sam continued.

“We know you want to finish building your factory. We want to ensure the spirits don’t escape the property, in effect, are decommissioned, or best case, removed and sent to their doom.

“What we have is a haunting, but it’s not the usual individual or small group of angry spirits. This is more like a pile of nuclear-grade plutonium with the potential to hurt many people as their collective powers grow.

“There’s more bad news. We know what happens when the Gates of Hell are opened,” said Sam, as if he was discussing a dusty case study in Constitutional law from his undergrad classes in Palo Alto.

“This many bad spirits are going to attract a lot of evil mojo. The Supernatural equivalent of scavengers and parasites will be arriving, if they aren’t already here. Think the equivalent of demon hyenas.”

Sam paused, letting the group process what he had said.

Audience members shared glances. Through the rest of their time together, no one ever asked about the Winchesters’ experiences with Hell gates. No one wanted to know.

\-----

One of the overlooked pleasures of life is when you get to sit with smart and competent people and address a common problem. No egos, no puffery. Just focus and courtesy and thoughtful questions and even more thoughtful answers.

Although many of the attendees lived in the area, everyone called their families and messaged their workplaces that they were going to stay the night. The two Milwaukee detectives and Ernie’s handler Elijah also chose to accept Solly’s generous hospitality.

Part of the reason for staying was because of what the attendees knew was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to be schooled in the Supernatural. But they also felt that they wanted to protect their loved ones from this new, disconcerting information.

Dinner was ordered in, and the talk continued until midnight; finally, Solly ordered the group to bed.

\-----

The Winchesters reveled in their luxurious suite, especially the loaded bar, big screen television, and “marvelous” bathroom with high-pressure shower and ginormous soaking tub. Dean ordered another round of room service: a flight of a dozen cheesecake bites paired with a sparkling rose wine. He substituted a pale ale.

Mary insisted they all hit the sack.

Now. Meaning you, Dean. And Sam. Turn off the computer.

She told her boys that she had made sure breakfast would include all the bacon her incorrigible older boy could eat, and Sam could count on granola and egg-white omelets. Enjoying the chance to be a loving mother.

But, before he turned out the light, Dean made a phone call to Blue Earth, Minnesota.

Time to bring in a bigger boat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sam and the older police officers dig up the story about how the barren block of property was used to dispose of the remains of people, mostly very bad people, executed by members of the mobs in the area. Their ghosts were released onto the larger property when the limestone wall around the barren section was removed, but still contained by the iron fence.
> 
> The contractor died because of a burst aortic aneurysm, a pre-existing condition triggered by the gruesome sights, but Sam assures Solly that the man would have died eventually.
> 
> Dean makes a mystery call.
> 
> \-----
> 
> I grew up where those ethnic mobs reigned. They built their empires on trust, which meant they counted on their families and tribal groups. Not that much different today, just new players. Oh, and if you are shocked at the idea that mobsters and elected officials have been in collusion for decades, please raise your hand. Yep, I thought so.
> 
> I also grew up with an expert in mob murders. He is no longer with us, but I conjured his spirit to help write this chapter.
> 
> The state soil of Wisconsin is Antigo Silt Loam. Limestone is made up of the skeletal remains of tiny marine creatures, and some of the Lore gives it strong, protective characteristics.
> 
> Cadaver dogs can detect remains at 15 feet. To the best of my knowledge, they were not incorporated in the investigation.


	7. Intermission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solly is a world-class people-watcher and learns more about the Winchesters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bridge to the next chapter, where the group realizes that the Winchesters mean business.

As usual, Sam was up early, taking advantage of the hotel’s exercise room and pool. Mary was enjoying a quiet breakfast in the main dining room of the hotel. A guest of Mr. Gimpel received special attention. It was nice. She was on her second cup of coffee, digging into a pile of bacon between bites of an omelet stuffed with roasted Anaheim peppers and goat cheese. Dean wandered in. He looked like a befuddled mole, blinking in confusion until he smelled the coffee. And the bacon.

Yep, Dean was her boy all right.

Solly had been up and working before dawn (old men don’t need much sleep), conferring with his chief financial officer and members of the company's board regarding the situation at the factory site. Learned how much the project was stressing the corporation’s financial well-being. Concerns from the regional office of the federal  _Environmental Protection Agency (EPA),_ even though the soil tests had shown no contamination. More concerns from _OSHA,_ even though the investigation showed the company was not at fault.

Time was running out. He needed to find a solution and plug the holes as the costs of coping with the property’s problems drained the company’s bank accounts. Otherwise, the project would have to be abandoned.

Solomon Gimpel, CEO, chose not to inform his board members about the ghosts.

\-----

Sam told Solly what was needed, and the hotel, used to hosting working conferences, was at the ready. A bigger room and white boards and cork boards and easels and markers and stickie notes and pushpins, and more food and drink.

Someone wheeled a projector and laser printer into the new meeting room so that Sam could show his computer screen to the entire group and download documents and photos. He had begun, with the help of detectives Kenny and Pete, to create an official case file with color-coordinated folders, housed in a banker box.

Sam apparently was in Nerd Heaven.

Dean asked for a Do-Not-Disturb sign. We’ll call you, he said to the catering manager. And closed the door in his face and locked the door.

Everyone on the team had returned to the meeting that morning before the appointed time. Many had lost sleep thinking about the information Sam had shared and had conducted their own online research. Sent discreet late-night and early morning texts to elderly family friends in Illinois and Wisconsin, to their priests and ministers and rabbis and imans, and to connections in the academic worlds in Chicago and Madison. Pretty much what little they learned corroborated the ghost story or, at the least, offered no alternative explanations.

The room was divided into three groups: the believers, the doubters, aka the atheists, and the confused, aka agnostics. By the end of the mission, there only would be believers.

\-----

The siblings easily fell into their roles. Now Solly knew the official name for the three investigators. Hunters. It suited them.

Older brother Dean told stupid jokes and ate more pie than Solly thought a grown man outside of the NFL could manage, but he led the group’s discussions, set the goals, and helped tie up loose ends. Definitely head of the pack. Gave the group focus.

Hardcore military experience, thought Solly. Boots on the ground. Wherever “there” was, Dean had been there, and more.

The old man could understand why soldiers would follow Dean into battle. Why you would want to trust the good-looking man with your life. The green-eyed hunter knew tactics, testing his ideas against Sam’s research. At the same time, he listened to people. A true leader. Despite his boyish antics, Solly already knew him to be good and honorable.

And sad. When he thought no one was looking and the mask fell, Solly saw a man who had survived unspeakable hardship. He has the aura of the very good police officer, sworn to protect the innocent. More than duty, though. As if he was of noble lineage and service was his birthright. This was before Solly heard about the Campbells and the Winchesters and the Men of Letters. And the Curse of Cain. And the tragedies of Heaven and Hell.

Dean, he knew, would take a bullet for loved ones without a moment's hesitation. Did not plan for a long life.

\-----

Sam was the scholar, delving into the Dark Net and contacting compatriots, called Hunters, from around North America for advice. (Solly and the group are soon going to learn that Sam has other talents.)

The tall Hunter used his Stanford-era teaching assistant skills to organize the information pinned to a couple of large, carpeted room dividers–in effect, a giant murder board. Except the team in the room knew who the killers were, as in a classic FBI procedural television show. Now their job was to catch them and destroy them.

Sam also could coax the quieter participants to speak up with his empathetic questions, making it okay for them to come forward with ideas and concerns.

He seemed to have acquired an encyclopedia of the Arcane, spoke Latin, Greek, and Hebrew fluently (classic Hebrew, not the vernacular of the modern state of Israel), and knew a dozen other obscure languages well enough to order a cup of coffee and banish a demon. Or so his proud sister said.

Solly, a former boy genius himself, knew smart; Sam was wicked smart. And a man of hidden talents.

\----- 

Mary was an enigma, which added to her charm. She was beautiful but did not present herself as a woman to be admired because of how she looked. Actually, this unselfconsciousness applied to her handsome brothers as well.

She was more an action person like her brother Dean, not as familiar with online resources as was brother Sam. She had the leadership gene and was unafraid to challenge her brothers if she thought they was wrong. And she had people skills as good or better than Sam’s. Obviously used to interviewing people.

Her main contribution to the team, in Solly’s opinion, was that she asked questions that no one else thought to ask.  Often her point of view aligned with the two Milwaukee detectives regarding old-school police methods.

And she carried the burden of recent grief. Solly knew the signs. The way she held her mouth, how she would stare into space, hugging herself as if never quite warm enough. As if she did not belong.

What professional gamblers call _tells_ and profilers call _microexpressions,_ used in their respective professions.

Solly’s uncle Adolph had been a card shark, a race track tout, and a bag man for Chicago’s Jewish mob families. He taught his favorite nephew how to win at pretty much any card game and how to judge the integrity of people under stressful situations. The first lesson helped pay his way through Wharton; the second helped build his business empire.

In another world, Solly would have hired the Brothers Winchester in a heartbeat. Would have whisked Mary away to a life of ease if she had let him.  Erase her pain, and helped her make new, better memories.  He was surprised and old-man pleased that he still could yearn like a teenager.

Meanwhile, Sam filled the murder board with sketches and text and computer printouts, documenting facts, and members of the group were adding ideas and asking practical questions.   
  
And Dean had discovered the hotel’s specialty: gourmet macaroni and cheese, made to order. Dean asked for a double order. With bacon and smoky chipotles.


	8. The Winchester Way

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solly has a competitor. Sam shows off what "just a librarian" can do.

Sam had left the meeting room a couple of times to, as he put it, "check on things". Before the first morning break, Sam announced to the group that, considering the size and toxicity of the _Bone Yard’s_ Supernatural population, Dean had called up a big gun to help out after they returned to their suite of rooms last night. Sam had a chance to chat with him briefly when he arrived at the hotel.

“In a case like this, you don’t need a lot of people, just the right ones.

“Our friend drove in from Blue Earth, Minnesota. Arrived before 3 am at the site and talked with the guards, who let him onto the property.  He confirmed our suspicions. Conversed with some of the less toxic spirits, he said, and helped more than one of the innocent victims move into the Light. Left after dawn when the spirits were driven back to the burial ground. Spent some time passing out what he called "religious medals" to the guards to help repel any malignant forces attracted to the negative vibes coming from the cemetery. He's napping in my room. Will be joining us soon. A good man. Really, the best in North America, in our opinion, to deal with a massive infestation of dangerous ghosts.

“The Reverend James Murphy. Known him since we were little. Friends with our father. He’s the real deal, what we call an _Adept.”_

Solly did the math on his fingers. Based on when Dean said he called the Reverend Murphy, it took the man less than three hours to reach the factory site–a 350-mile drive from his home in Minnesota. A driver would need more than knowing a short cut or playing tag with county sheriffs to make that trip in that amount of time.

The old businessman filed away this ability to warp the time-space continuum as another mystery to explore at a later date.

Solly did not catch the look on Mary’s face. Neither did the brothers. Dean and Sam had not thought through the possible consequences of their inviting the reverend to the meeting.

\-----

During that first morning break, one of Gimpel’s top executives, Andrew Aldrich, still an atheist regarding the ghost theory, attempted to impress the Winchesters (meaning Mary) with his Ivy League MBA and squash-game muscles.  
  
Mr. Aldrich, as he preferred to be addressed, had edged his way to sit next to Mary at the table at the front of the room. He was the head of purchasing for _Albert’s_ Wisconsin headquarters, an excellent performer with the kind of competitive edge that kept vendors from taking advantage of the Gimpel company’s deep pockets.

He still thought the floating lights and sounds he saw were some kind of swamp gas hallucination. The problem with his theory was that the nearest probable place to find swamp gas was many miles away in Horicon, Wisconsin at the wildlife refuge, location of the largest freshwater cattail marsh in the United States.

Not a bad guy. Just a bit self-absorbed.  There were rumors he had a way with the ladies. Tall as Dean and fit. Blue eyes and dark brown hair–manicured and coifed and dressed in a stylish version of business casual, purchased off of _Albert’s_ top-of-the-line racks. Brought up in the rarified atmosphere of the Boston Brahmin tribes. The family was “comfortable”, a code word for “old money, conservatively invested”. Phillips Exeter. Harvard, a given. Moved to Milwaukee where he could be a bigger fish in a smaller pond and feel benignly superior to the graduates of the local excellent business schools.

To his credit, liked working for a firm that emphasized quality and customer service, the old-fashioned strategy for sustaining a brand.

Solly felt a pang of jealousy at the younger man’s obvious interest in the blonde investigator until Mary caught his eye and winked. Okay then, this should be fun.

Mr. Aldrich made a condescending comment to Sam about his being the librarian of the group, subtly demeaning that noble profession. Why he thought trying to put down Mary’s brother would win points with her, no one will know. Maybe it worked at prep school mixers. The handsome manager still had a whiff of Ivy League frat boy in how he interacted with women. Adorable to some, really annoying to others.

Sam wouldn’t take the bait. He politely smiled and walked away, but Dean overheard and, as Solly recalled later, morphed into that dangerous species: _Protective Big Brother with a Sense of Humor._

Piled on the side of the room were several green, army-issue, canvas duffel bags that Solly had seen the Winchesters unload from the Impala. Dean, Sam, and Mary had unzipped them and begun to play show and tell, pulling out various artifacts, weapons, and potions as if they were hosting a mystical _Tupperware_ party.

Dean rummaged around one of the bags and retrieved what appeared, at first, to be a bundle of silverware wrapped in kidskin. But, when Dean unrolled the soft leather onto the main table, he revealed a set of knives that looked they belonged in Chicago’s _Field Museum of Natural History._ Shimmering, hammered metal blades with aged ivory handles, carved with hieroglyphics from another era.

“Hey Sammy, let’s put on a demo for these good people regarding your skills as a librarian,” said Dean, beaming with anticipatory pride.

Big Brother pulled up a wheeled cork board to the table. While the group watched, he took a clean sheet of paper from the generous pile of office supplies provided by the hotel and, with a thick, red marker, drew a target with four circles. Colored in the bullseye, about two inches across. He then attached the paper to the cork board with pushpins and rolled it to the far end of the large meeting room.

Meanwhile, Sam shrugged off a layer of flannel and folded it neatly on the back of a chair, revealing a worn Stanford University t-shirt.

 _Cardinal Red_ was a good color on the investigator, Solly thought. The cool, dark red brought out the warmth of the Sam’s honey-tinged skin.

The tall Hunter was skilled at camouflage, making himself smaller and non-threatening to civilians. How he stood and sat, and his sweet, self-deprecating demeanor. The members of the group, including Solly, suddenly realized that Sam was 6’ 5”, with very broad shoulders and the physique of a professional athlete in top shape, muscled yet trim.

Reminded Solly of the comic books of his distant youth. World War II heroes like _Captain America_  and _Superman._

Mr. Aldrich audibly inhaled.

And Elijah Turner, Ernie’s handler, was staring at Sam with more than professional interest.

Sam scooped up the knives in one broad hand and strode to the end of the room away from the cork board. Dean and Mary herded the onlookers away from the invisible path between the man and the crude target.

Dean started a countdown.

“One,” he said softly, and Sam threw the knives in succession, so quickly that they blurred together. One blink, and the blades were arrayed in a perfect circle around the bullseye.

Elijah clapped enthusiastically, and the rest of the group joined in. Dean was beaming. Mary trotted over to Sam to give and get a hug.

The group moved in close to view the target. Wow.

Mr. Aldrich pushed to the front of the small crowd.

“Did you ever kill anything with those knives?” he asked.

His blood was up.

The Milwaukee cops, Ernie’s partner Elijah, and all of the ex-military in the room scowled. Bad form. You don’t ask about kills. Solly was frowning. Folks in the group instinctively moved away from the posturing Gimpel's manager.

Sam answered in his driest scholarly persona, as if discussing a question about a mathematical formula.

“Yes,” he said.

“I have killed things with enchanted knives, machetes, axes, bullets, potions, spells, spears, and incantations. I have fought entities and humans barehanded. Have exorcised demons, beheaded vampires, and broken the backbones of lesser creatures over my knee.”

He paused. The room was still.

“We all have.”

Mary and Dean stood at attention, aware that the people in the room were looking at them differently. Not the first time.

Solly broke the spell left by the weight of Sam’s words.  
  
“Let’s finish our break and get back to work, ladies and gentlemen. Fifteen minutes.”

Sam disappeared into his flannel shirt and his Clark Kent facade, retrieved the knives, wiped them with a clean cloth napkin, and rolled them back into the kidskin. Tucked them into a duffel bag. Dean left the bull’s-eye on the cork board and rolled it into place by the front of the room. The rest of the group took the time to hit the restrooms and restock their plates of snacks.

As some of the group members began to walk back to their seats, pushing tables and chairs into place, someone knocked at the locked door.


	9. Pastor Jim

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Reverend James Murphy arrives and meets Mary. Solly is aware that Mary might not be who she says she is.

As some of the group members began to walk back to their seats, pushing tables and chairs into place, someone knocked at the locked door.

Dean grinned and raced Sam to the doorway, but Sam’s long legs won out.

Solly didn’t know what to expect. Sam had explained to the group that Adepts usually were human– and isn’t that a whole other story, the old man thought–who, through a combination of inbred Talent and decades of learning and training, acquired high-level mojo. Some became Witches and Warlocks of the Black Arts, some dabbled in herb gardens and benign healing potions, and some were dedicated in their chosen role of fighting Evil.

Reverend Murphy, like the Winchesters, was part of the Hunter community.

And then Sam slipped.

“The pastor was the one who first taught me about the magic inherent in everyday objects. Helped raise Dean and me when we were growing up. Like one of those cool uncles you got to see a few times each year. Our Dad would drop us off at his house, sometimes for a couple of weeks.”

Dean heard and corrected Sam.

“With Mary, of course,” he said.

Dean just made things worse.

\-----

Mary was busy at the buffet table, efficiently building herself a a deli-style masterpiece: a complicated pastrami and _jalapeño_ cheese sandwich, slathered in beet horseradish and Dijon mustard on light rye bread dotted with caraway and rosemary. She chatted with the accountant, Helen Bishop, who had faced off with the ghost in the shed. Helen was piling up layers of thin-cut roast beef, lettuce, and tomato on sturdy wheat bread with mayo. They felt a kinship: two hard-working women bonding over cold cuts and artisan bread.

Confronted with the hotel’s endless array of tasty dishes, they confessed to each other their shared lack of cooking skills and swapped a couple of recipes that required only a can opener and a microwave. Mary didn’t hear the knock or see the brothers race each other to answer it.

Sam unlocked the door and opened it, stepping back as the elderly pastor entered the room. The reverend was holding, one-handed, by a thick leather strap, a giant trunk crafted in black leather with silver hardware Fine craftsmanship, Solly noted. 19thcentury, from the detailed stitchery.

The old man dropped the luggage as he was engulfed by the two brothers. The kind of hugs you give family members who are back from a long and dangerous journey.

The Winchester boys finally parted to reveal the Adept, a slender man of average height with short, silver hair. He was dressed in a gray Mister Rogers cardigan, dark slacks, and a blue shirt with a clerical collar. He wore a silver cross around his neck. Small, but ornate.

Mary looked up at the heavy _thump_ of the dropped trunk. She stood, sandwich plate in hand, a classic deer-in-the-headlight look on her face.

The reverend saw Mary. And also froze, but just for a moment. He left the trunk and the brothers Winchester and walked across the room towards her, slowly but with determination. The members of the group watched in silence. They could feel something important was about to happen.

Helen, the friendly accountant, stepped away.

Dean moved to intervene, but Sam held him back.

With what Solly thought was a loving smile, the reverend reached out, removed the sandwich plate from Mary’s hands, placed it on the table, and took a small step back.

“Mary Campbell,” he said, and held out his hands.

“Pastor Jim?” She started to cry.  
  
It was like star-crossed lovers reuniting, and they were the only people in the room. Everyone turned away and began talking with each other to give the couple some privacy. Sam and Dean watched from a distance, teary-eyed.

Solly was close enough to hear their conversation.

“I was in the Holy Land studying that Halloween. Met John through Bobby Singer when I returned. He was a good man, regardless of his flaws. A great man, even. And I could not have loved your boys more than if they had been my own.

“And here you are. So strong. So beautiful.”

Mary brushed aside his hand and fell into his arms.

He brushed a kiss on her forehead.

“And so good to finally meet you,” he said.

During the chaos of wartime, the bonds of family break apart, re-form, and heal in surprising ways. People disappear and reappear, decades later. It happened in the Gimpel’s extended family after the Holocaust, with relatives surfacing with new names, new spouses, new faces, and sometimes, new children–orphans they had picked up along the way and adopted with no fanfare and no paperwork, like taking in a stray dog or cat.

So, somehow Mary never met the Reverend Murphy even though he helped raise her brothers. Really?

Maybe, Solly thought, there had been a war. Or two.

\-----

Sam brought the group back together while Dean went up to Mary and the reverend, whispering to them, putting his hand on his sister’s (?) shoulder, and leading her away.

The reverend wiped his eyes. He walked to the doorway, retrieved the trunk, and carried it along to join Sam at the front of the room and address the group.

“My name is James Murphy,” he began, and smiled. “Thank you for inviting me. Please call me Jim, or, if you prefer Pastor Jim. I have earned certain privileges in the Catholic Church, but I consider myself a nondenominational Christian. We have a lot of work to do, and time is running out. Let me share what I learned.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Created timelines for each of the main characters, including Pastor Jim, to figure out when they were born and how old they would be in 2020, when these event took place. Also, how old Mary was when she reappeared and how old she might be in the current story. I know I messed up a little, but it is fiction about fiction.
> 
> I suspect that Pastor Jim knew of the extended Campbell family, and might have met Mary when she was a little girl, but lost track of her after her parents were murdered and the rest of the family and her friends were killed. Even as a very young man, Jim was building a reputation in the Hunter community, so she might have heard of him in the years before her death.
> 
> And he knew John. And helped him. And knew the boys growing up. An important link to her family, perhaps more important than her bond with Bobby. Even though she has been alive for a few years now, she might not have met Jim before this. He traveled internationally, and she and the boys didn't alway take cases together.
> 
> At least, that is my take on their meeting at the hotel.
> 
> And Solly is a smart cookie. I think he might already know that Mary is not the boys' sister, despite the family resemblance. But he is not saying anything, yet. And he is dismissing clues that might lead to the impossible truth.


	10. Practical Magic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pastor Jim share some of his magic. Mr. Aldrich is still a jerk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pastor Jim establishes his credibility as an Adept. In the next chapter, the group will lay out the plan.

“My name is James Murphy,” he began, and smiled. “Thank you for inviting me. Please call me Jim, or, if you prefer Pastor Jim. I have earned certain privileges in the Catholic Church, but I consider myself a nondenominational Christian. We have a lot of work to do, and time is running out. Let me share what I learned.”

He walked over to where Solly was standing and shook hands with the older man.

“An honor,” said Solomon Gimpel, CEO, son of Abraham and Elisheva.

“Likewise,” said the Reverend James Patrick Xavier Murphy, son of Malachi and Bridget.

Solly returned to his chair, still the same eager student that he was as a boy. His admirers said his perpetual quest for knowledge is what kept him so young.

Out came the note paper and devices.

Pastor Jim stood next to Sam, at ease in his role as teacher. He talked briefly about his visit to the site and verified the group’s findings, then found an empty chair and sat down at the big table with the rest of the team.

Mary delivered a plate with generous portions of the different deli salads from the buffet and pulled over a spare chair to sit near the reverend, abandoning both Andrew and Solly. Dean, knowing his taste, brought Jim a large mug filled with hot water and a display box of tea bags. The brother and sister seemed to take great pleasure in waiting on the good-humored cleric.

Solly’s first impression was that the pastor radiated goodness like a lighthouse beacon in a storm. Must have been a special treat for the young Winchesters to stay with the sweet man.

[If you would like to eavesdrop on one of the brother’s visits with Pastor Jim and Bobby Singer, check out [My Hero](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12864909).]

Folks made room for them, and the table re-organized.

“How did you get on the property?” asked Kenny, one of the Milwaukee detectives. “The guards let you in? Really?”

No alarm had been sounded, otherwise Mr. Gimpel would have been notified.

“I was able to convince them that I was part of this team,” the reverend said. He smiled, convincing the seasoned police officer that the good pastor was a first-class con man.

“First of all, this is Wisconsin,” said the pastor.  “Most of the guards are good Catholics and good Lutherans and were respectful of my collar and status. And all of the guards I met with already had their suspicions about the things they saw and heard behind the iron fence at night.

“Yes, they tried to stop me from entering the site, but I demonstrated that I was more than capable of handling the situation. However I insisted that, for their safety, I needed to go alone, so they could secure the perimeter in case civilians wandered by.”

“How exactly did you demonstrate these skills?” asked Kenny’s partner Pete. He sounded genuinely curious rather than the tone he used with suspects during an interrogation.

“I corporealized one of the innocent spirits and sent it on its way to its well-deserved reward,” said Pastor Jim.

“Pretty impressive light show if you have never seen an exorcism of this type before.”

The Winchesters nodded in unison.

Solly suddenly wished that the reverend would be there when it was his time to leave. The old businessman was what he liked to call a grateful agnostic, and like most mainstream Jews, his beliefs did not focus on an afterlife. But, hearing about the ghosts and the casual references to Heaven and Hell that peppered the Winchesters’ conversations opened a door in his heart that had been closed since, as a boy, he had learned about the Holocaust and the fate of the uncles, aunts, and cousins left behind.

The Milwaukee cops seemed satisfied, for now. The rest of the group collectively shrugged. They already felt like seasoned experts regarding the Supernatural and were eager to help. The Winchesters and the reverend recognized the positive mood in the room; just hoped careless optimism would not get anyone killed.

For the rest of the day it was not uncommon to see the reverend and the blonde Hunter holding hands or for Pastor Jim to have his arm around her. She would rest against him, anchored. The sight pulled at Solly’s heart, but in a good way. Imagined that was how Mary rested in the arms of her father

\-----

Dean facilitated the session as Sam acted as a scribe.

Because the members of the group–Solly, the experienced business managers, the frontline staff, the Milwaukee cops Kenny and Pete, and Ernie’s handler Elijah Turner–understood the basic science of containing and destroying rogue spirits, the issue was what to do and how, considering the scope of the haunting.

First, there was the immediate problem of protecting the people who might have contact with the spirits and any malignant entities they might be attracting. At the least, the guards and anyone who would approach or enter the property needed warding in the form of sigils, silver, iron, and salt, plus blessed objects.

Pastor Jim reassured the group that the first thing he had done when he visited the factory site was supply all of the guards with protection medallions, cast in the earliest days of the Bronze Age in Sumer. Millennia of strong magic simmered below their surfaces; felt like a mild tingle of static electricity.

The embossed metal pendants, which could be hidden in a pocket or worn on their matching chains, would safeguard them against anything up to a full onslaught from Hell, including demonic possession. The ghosts could scare them, but not harm them physically, even as the spirits grew stronger. Pastor Jim was able to persuade the guards of strong religious faith as well as the nonbelievers that the medallions would not violate their value systems.

As if on cue, Dean and Sam stood up and went over to where the black leather trunk brooded next to the front door of the meeting room. The old businessman watched the two strong men struggle with the same piece of luggage that the slightly built reverend had carried singlehandedly with no apparent effort. He caught the eye of Mary, who looked amused. Pastor Jim, it turned out, had a reputation of being a benign prankster and enjoyed teasing his boys.

Another form of love that Solly was very familiar with. In his own affectionate household formal and polite behavior was reserved for people not well-liked, but who still deserved at least the façade of respect. Good-humored joking was a sign that you were part of the family.

The group caught on and hurled a few jibes at the red-faced Hunters as they wrestled the trunk onto a long side table. For a split second, the table groaned under the weight and then adjusted, as if the trunk knew how much the flimsy worktop, used to holding papers and place settings, could bear.

The reverend walked over the trunk, smoothed the top with a loving hand, as if greeting a beloved pe. He pressed a round silver emblem embedded in the ebony leather and popped the invisible lock. The trunk opened, and he waved the group out of their chairs to stand around the table to view the contents. Solly moved closer and sniffed the air.

“Birch oil,” he said. “Russian leather. 18th century? But the trunk was constructed in the 19th century?”

The reverend nodded.

Solly was transported back to his childhood and a beloved leather coat that his father Albert had brought from the old country. Had not seen it in decades.

The top of the open trunk contained fitted trays lined in black velvet, like one might see in a jewelry store. Each compartment contained a single artifact: rings, jewels, pins, vial, bracelets. Some seemed to glow under the hotel's utilitarian lighting.

With help from the crowd, Pastor Jim removed the top layers of trays, which were carried to the main table.

“Can we touch?” asked Helen, the accountant.

Pastor Jim looked up at the ceiling, and squinted, making up his mind, inventorying what was in the trays and their potential for harm.

“Gently,” he replied after a moment's reflection. “They are like electronic gizmos with the batteries turned to off. The on switch would require a ceremony with words, maybe potions. I doubt anyone here could recite the correct invocation in Aramaic.”

“Except for Sam,” Mary and Dean recited in unison.

The group laughed at the practiced response by the Winchester siblings. Solly caught the hint that Sam, if he had the time and inclination, probably would become an Adept like the reverend.

“Except for Sam,” repeated Pastor Jim, and smiled affectionately at the tall Hunter, who blushed at the attention.

Mr. Aldrich had mostly been quiet since Sam’s demonstration with the knives. He picked up one of the jewels, a red stone the size of a golf ball.

“Pretty glass,” he said, disparagingly.

Would he never learn?

“Oh, it’s real enough,” said the reverend. “Burmese ruby. Found it on the Indian Peninsula in one of those abandoned temples that still hide riches in secret rooms."

Did not appear to take offense at Mr. Aldrich's comment, but Solly knew he was going to have a talk with the younger manager after this adventure was over.

“It protects the wearer against evil. When inserted and worn in the body, it is supposed to make a soldier invulnerable. And, it has the power to amplify feelings of desire.”

Mr. Aldrich hastily dropped the gorgeous stone back into its compartment.

“But,” said Pastor Jim, “It is not one of those love potions one hears about. Nasty things that hurt people. This works with existing affection and just make everything feel…better.

“And, no, Dean,” he said, seeming to anticipate what the green-eyed Hunter was about to say.

“There is no such thing as sex pollen.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like most immigrant Jews, the older members of my family had multiple names: their everyday Yiddish names, ones used in commerce from the countries they came from, their Hebrew names from their birthday certificates and religious ceremonies, and their English names, often bestowed on them by a tired or overworked immigration clerk.
> 
> My grandfather, Albert, was Abraham in the old country. My grandmother was born in the United States. I pick a Hebrew name that was often associated with the name Lillian.
> 
> I wish we knew more about Pastor Jim, but I have my own canon...that's what fan fiction is for, right?


	11. Riches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tattoos and dragon's blood
> 
> More exploration of Pastor Jim's magic trunk, Sam and Dean are worried about going hell, again, and the team members are notice the growing bond between Mary and Solly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some procedural magic and a chance to show off Pastor Jim's skills. He is packed for a big fish.
> 
> Rachel Leah was my great-grandmother, a paid cook in the old country, who taught all the girls how to cook. And her kosher dill pickle recipe was a family heirloom, beloved by my dad.

“There is no such thing as sex pollen.”

The group roared. Mary slapped Dean on the head, and his little brother gave him a one-armed hug, muttering “There, there”.

Dean pouted for twenty seconds.

Solly and Pastor Jim exchanged smiles. One of the best ways to bond a team was through these moments of good humor. Dean seemed at ease with being the brunt of what appeared to be a long-standing joke.

Good leaders always are.

The old businessman knew his employees enjoyed teasing him about his passion for well-made pastrami (which is why he watched the Food Channel religiously and used his grandmother Rachel Leah’s recipe to brine and smoke his own), his not very secret crush on the actress Cate Blanchett (who wore one of _Lillian’s_ creations to the Golden Globe awards one year–-gratis), and his innocent vanity regarding his hair (something he and Sam would bond over in later years).

Back to work.

\-----

Andrew Aldrich, when he was willing to drop his frat boy attitude, was focused and useful, slipping back into his role as the purchasing manager of a successful corporation.

He turned out to have an encyclopedic knowledge of all sorts of materials used in manufacturing, not just fabric for the clothing industry. And he won points by expressing his pride in the capable Gimpel employees.

He pointed to some of the objects nested in the different sections of the velvet-lined trays.

“Is it the shape of the…wardings? Or the material they are made of? Our company is used to quick turnarounds, and we have the best artisans and engineers in the business. Can duplicate any object made of fabric, leather, or plastic in record time. Would a sigil be more complicated than a custom braided belt? Or the raised embroidery on a wedding dress?”

The reverend had taken over from Dean, who deferred to his years and superior knowledge.

“First, when it comes to creating the warding symbol or sigils, you have choices,” said Pastor Jim. “The boys and Mary are accustomed to using any kind of liquid to paint the images on walls, doors, windows, ceilings, and floors, in buildings, cars, and factories. And for years they have used physical sigils, artifacts crafted from iron and silver, to hang in the motel rooms where they set up shop, similar to the symbols on the iron fence surrounding the factory’s property.

“But some substances are inherently better. For example, adding holy water or holy oil to pigments ground from certain semi-precious stones with protective powers, such as amethysts, will have more juice than the same image sprayed on a wall with the kind of paint bought at a hardware store.

“Actually, human blood is required for several types of sigils. A tattoo, for example, draws its power not just from the symbol, but in the blood that is shed in its making.”

Of course, at that pronouncement, Dean felt obligated to unbutton his flannel shirt and pull down on the neck of his t-shirt to display his anti-possession tattoo. Nudged his brother, who showed identical ink. Which triggered a giddy few minutes; almost everyone in the room, except for Solly and Mr. Aldrich, had some image to reveal.

Elijah Turner displayed the head of a snarling Ernie on his chest. (The guy worked out. Great abs. Who knew?) Blood dripping from the dog’s jaws. Pretty scary. Helen the accountant had a bouquet of flowers on her upper arm with the names of her children: Rose, Lily, and Viola, woven into the leaves.

The Milwaukee detectives and some of the other men and women in the room had the usual collection of standard military tattoos, with images of eagles and the tools of war. The civilian women favored pretty: flowers, goddesses, jewelry, cats, and ankle art. The men: cars, guns, and lightning bolts. Everyone seemed to like hearts and knives. Tribal images, and accidentally, some legitimate warding sigils.

Middle-class tats. Welcome to the 21st century.

One of the men from the Gimpel company had crude prison art scrawled high up on his arm. He made a point of showing the group what he carried and why.

“I was a stupid kid. Stole a car. Grand theft auto. Did the max. Three years. Joined a gang inside for protection. Got out. Nobody would hire me, but G _impel’s_. I’d take a bullet for Mr. Gimpel. Happy to be fighting those bastards.”

“Oh, excuse me, ladies,” he added. Sweet guy named Freddy. One of the men who worked on the shipping dock in Milwaukee and had been asked to stay late and bring workers at the site their meals one night; also had grisly stories to share about what he saw and heard.

Dean and Sam already had tagged Freddy as someone who would be good if the going got rough. Biceps like tree roots.

“You’ll have to take my word for it,” said the good Pastor when cornered by a couple of giddy participants. “A cross. And wings. And I have the same anti-possession tattoo my boys do.”

Solly heard the _“my boys”_ , and it warmed his heart. Mary heard it, too, and leaned against the reverend’s shoulder like a happy cat. She caught Solly’s eye, and they smiled together, yet again. Seemed to be happening more.

And their connection was being noticed. Dean was not feeling like a protective big brother (or son), at least, that is what he kept telling himself. Sam was pleased, wearing his “aw shucks” face. Aldrich was disconcerted. The cops shrugged. Helen kept grinning. The usually perceptive Solomon Gimpel was oblivious. Mary noticed, and her inner teenage girl preened.

Then Mary took the opportunity to show her art via a photo on her smart phone. Shocked poor Sam and Dean, who quickly handed off the cell to Helen and scurried away on some made-up errand.

Mary, it turned out, had visited Chicago on her own one week and sought out a Hunter-friendly tattoo artist who was delighted to meet another Winchester. He updated her anti-possession ink and, from a painting she had found in one of Bobby’s hand-bound volumes of manuscripts from ancient Greece, created a lifelike illustration of a fiery phoenix rising from the ashes. It was flying up her naked back along her spine, wings pointed up in that moment just before the great bird would have pulled itself loose with a downward thrust into the blue sky.

Her phone was passed around, and even the women whistled in admiration. A work of art indeed, thought Solly, who had seen more than his share of naked women as they wriggled into his dresses at runaway events and dressing rooms. Oblivious to his watchful eyes, which were focused on the drape and flow of fine silk and linen. Mary’s body looked like that of a dancer or a gymnast, strong lean muscles bound to a perfect frame of sinew and bone.

There was nothing the least bit immodest about the shot or what it revealed. Mary said it was hanging in the tattoo artist’s studio; he gave her a discount for the right to the design.

Bet he made some good money off of the photo, thought Solly.

Her brothers? Dean whispered in Sam’s ear.

“So, I am going to Hell, again,” said Dean.

“Yeah, me too,” said Sam.

Another notation in Solly’s mental _Winchester Directory of Interesting Facts_. Hell? Again? And what does that have to do with their beautiful sister?

Back to work, said the reverend.

“To your point, Mr. Aldrich. If we had a little more time I would prevail upon you and your talented colleagues to create fabric versions of the sigils and wards we need. But I think I have what we need in the trunk.

“I brought blessed medallions and talismans. Those will protect anyone who needs to enter the property. And everyone in this room.

“Let’s see what else we have.”

\-----

There was a knock on the back door of the meeting room, the one that the staff members of the hotel used. At some point Sam had called housekeeping and asked for more long tables to be delivered. The staff members also refreshed the snack table and left. The door locked behind them.

(One of the police detectives had brought up concerns about security and fire laws and talkative hotel clerks in a side chat with Dean. Already was treating him like the leader he was.

“Least of our worries,” said the Hunter. “We’ll be fine. It’s better if people think we are just some group of crazies. They will sleep better at night if they don’t know about what’s really hiding under the bed. And the room's doors will open for us if there is an emergency. No problem.”)

\-----

Once the top layer of compartmented trays was removed from the trunk and spread out on the tables, the next level was revealed: four flat trays, also covered with black velvet. They fit together creating one seamless surface but could be removed separately by pulling up on attached looped ribbons of sturdy black silk.

Strapped to the trays with sewn-in elastic bands were a selection of bottles. They glistened in the light from organic anomalies–twists and bumps buried in their glass walls, evidence that they were hand-blown in another century. Each was stoppered with cork and, on what looked like cotton rag paper to Solly’s discerning eye, labeled with Pastor Jim’s lovely script in a variety of languages, from vernacular English to Enochian, the Voice of the Angels. Solly could read the Latin, Greek, Hebrew, and English words, some of the Cyrillic alphabet, and, much to his surprise, one bottle label written in Yiddish.

“Mostly plant tinctures with extra ingredients,” said the reverend.

Solly suspected that they were looking at more than the contents of the herbal tea shelf at the neighborhood health food store.

“Eye of newt? Dragon’s blood?” asked Helen the accountant. She thought of this battle against wicked ghosts as high adventure and was thoroughly enjoying herself. Like the t-shirt says, _“You can’t scare me: I’m a single mom.”_

Pastor Jim squinted at the display, pulled out two bottles from their moorings, and handed them to Helen, who held them up to the light and peered into their depths.

Mary swatted the reverend’s shoulder; he pretended to wince. He grinned in apology at Helen and pointed at the two bottles in turn.

“Willow bark headache remedy and borage skin lotion. My secret recipes. Happy to leave you some, if you like.”

He took them out of Helen’s hands and replaced them on the tray.

Then he removed a small bottle, solid black, from the display. The label was marked with gold script in what looked like Nordic runes. Solly, a fan of Wagnerian opera, pretended that the markings might be the language of an ancient race of Dwarves. (Spot on, Mr. Gimpel. Good call.)

Pastor Jim motioned to Dean, who went over to the meeting room’s control panel and dimmed the lights.

The reverend held up the bottle by the neck with one hand so everyone could see. He muttered a few words in a guttural tongue.

Solly thought it was like watching the night sky, waiting for your eyes to adjust so you could see a celestial event.

Pastor Jim did not disappoint his audience.

Lights began to flicker within the bottle, increasing in intensity until the entire bottle was glowing gold from within.

And then the room began to shake.

Pastor Jim waved his free hand and shouted “Christo!”

The bottle turned black, instantly. And the room stopped shaking. Dean turned the lights back up.

The reverend smiled. Solly said later that Pastor Jim looked like one of the hosts from the 1950s Mickey Mouse Club television show: clean cut and innocent. The old businessman guessed correctly that the silver-haired cleric’s sweet ecclesiastical façade hid a puckish sense of humor

“Now _this_ is dragon’s blood,” he said, pointing at the bottle and winking at Helen, and the group broke out in applause.

He returned the black bottle to the tray and secured it, Then, he handed the trays of bottles to bystanders, who moved them to the tables.

Next level.


	12. More Riches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More about the contents of Pastor Jim's trunk, with some hints as to how they are going to take down the denizens of what the good reverend has named the "blood field". More about Solly's benign infatuation with Mary, and more insights into the character of Aldrich, the snarky manager.
> 
> Next chapter, we learn about the plan.

Next level.

This layer of trays held a variety of drawstring bags in silk, linen, cotton, and hemp. Each bag was identified by an ordinary cardboard tag that was attached to its drawstring through a punched hole. The labels were written in English.

The reverend studied the array of bags and picked out four, handing them out to group members.

“We need artifacts to protect individuals, to strength the iron fence, and to build the mystical wall around the blood field. More is not necessarily better. This is what I think will work.”

The first bag went to Mary, who stood next to him, hand on his sleeve. She took the bag, crafted of fine white linen, and moved back to the main table, grabbing a pile of clean cloth napkins from a side table on her way. She knew what to do. Not her first experience with potentially powerful and deadly artifacts.

Solly marveled at Mary’s matter-of-fact way of dealing with this Wonderland of mass murderers, ghouls, and magical trinkets. Kept thinking about what her childhood was like for her and her brothers.

She sat, placing the bag to one side. Unfolded and spread out a layer of napkins, then opened the bag, and carefully poured its contents onto the tabletop. A rainbow spill of purple, red, blue, and green gems, lit from within.

Solly harkened back to his boyhood love of _The Hobbit._ Did the good reverend personally raid the home of a cousin of Smaug the Dragon? Maybe the same beast from which he drew the golden blood?

The old businessman tried not to stare at Mary, not to move too close. Not to be _that_ kind of old man. But, if she could be his, he would shower her with jewels. A finished sketch of a necklace design sprung to mind unbidden; he decided it was time for a private chat with Pastor Jim. Would a gold and silver pendant set with rubies in the shape of the phoenix’s tail be _totally_ out of line as a thank-you gift?

Not like he was saving up for retirement. At 86, given his family genes, he figured he was good for another ten years, clear-headed and productive. But he was not a fool when it came to the ability of even and competent people to rationalize foolish behavior. Consequently, every year he pulled together a small committee of his most trusted employees and family members. Told them that if they decided it was time for him to resign, he would leave that day.

They would watch him for a year…have monthly meetings in private.

The committee told him when he had to stop driving. Cut from the menu some of his favorite childhood foods, the dishes that helped at least one brother into an early grave, albeit with a smile on his face. (Talking about you, kishkes made with chicken fat.) Ordered him to take more vacation days. Made him join his employees for exercise, even if it was just a daily walk on the lakefront. His favorite: HR instituted dance classes, and employees who participated got to extend their breaks by ten minutes. And have one-on-one time with their CEO while waltzing to Strauss or jitter-bugging to _Queen._

Each year, Solly would form a new oversight committee, with fresh eyes. He asked Andrew Aldrich the manager to serve every year. Knew he would be ruthlessly honest.

The Winchester team’s work would be paid for by the corporation. Bonuses for his staff. Presents for the cops, cleared with their employers, of course. He smiled, knowing their families would like some Gimpelware as gifts.

And, in addition to the paycheck to the Hunter family, a visit to _Lillian’s_ was in order. Who would it hurt if he spent a little money on a smart, hard-working woman? And her brothers, of course. (Wondered if Pastor Jim could use a really smart custom-made suit, with hand-tailored shirts.)

\-----

He noticed that Mary had begun to examine the gems individually. They were about the size of two-carat diamonds, spherical and faceted. And, Mary gasped when she held one up to the light. She waved Dean over and showed him what she found. He shook his head in delighted disbelief.

Went over to one of the duffel bags and retrieved a couple of magnifying glasses a la Sherlock Holmes. Pulled up a spare chair and plopped down next to her.  Handed one magnifier to Mary and carefully picked up a ruby, shining in the palm of his hand like a miniature stoplight.

The two Winchesters hunched over the table to stare at their finds, leaning into each other. Solly could see the family resemblance: the fair skin, the mold of their noses, a certain set of their jaws. And their eyes: a history of sorrow, like what you see in the faces of soldiers, home from the battlefield.

Except for these heroes, the wars never end.

What doesn’t kill you, makes you strong, the old man thought, having no idea of how many times the Winchesters had died and returned. Of the brothers’ s time in Hell. Of Dean’s time in Purgatory. Of Mary being yanked from Heaven to endure the Hunter’s life, the ones she wanted to escape, in a new world.

“They are etched with wards,” she said. “Never seen this before. Look at the workmanship.”

Potent magic. They tingled in the Hunters’ hands. And, yes, they glowed.

Elijah Turner, Ernie’s partner, was handed a larger black bag, which Solly recognized as crafted from a sturdy silk weave, covered with elaborate black embroidery. The officer went to sit next on the other side of Mary. With child-like delight, she and Dean were letting the jewels flow between their fingers.

Following her lead, the police officer placed a couple of the cloth napkins on the table in front him, opened the black bag, and poured out a cascade of coins. Silver, gold, and some metals that an intrigued Solly could not identify.

All were stamped with different images: animal and human heads, sigils, symbols from nature, abstract designs, and numbers and letters. Artifacts from a dozen civilizations. Entities and rulers whose names were lost in the shadows of antiquity.

Several had images of wolves and dog-like gods that Elijah recalled from his visit to Chicago museums as a kid on school-sponsored field trips. Even then, anything with dogs would draw his attention.

He put those aside in a small pile to ask Pastor Jim about later.

Mr. Aldrich, who was watching the Hunters and the cop play with the priceless objects, frowned and chastised the reverend.

“Seems like a careless way to store expensive curios. The jewels can scratch each other, and the coins can oxidize and tarnish, particularly when they come in contact with a conducting metal. And what about the oil from our fingers? Shouldn’t we be handling them with cotton conservator gloves?”

Aldrich could converse intelligently about metallurgy and the history of the silk trade as well as the daily prices for gold, silver, and platinum on the major world markets.

“Yes, Mr. Aldrich, you are correct. Thank you for bringing up this issue. Normally, this would be an inexcusable means of storing and handling these tokens,” said Pastor Jim, waving his hand vaguely over the open trunk and the nearby table.

Solly noticed that Aldrich seemed mollified by the reverend’s gracious reply to his question. Obviously, Pastor Jim would have made a great manager. The old businessman realized people skills came with the territory if you chose to be a minister. Sam had said something to him about the reverend having his own church up in Minnesota. He wondered if the parishioners knew about Pastor Jim’s other life.

The cleric continued.

“But we need to be able to use these objects in the field in less than ideal conditions. Everything is spell-warded, using incantations to lock and unlock the protections in place. The spells protect the items from physical, chemical, or electromagnetic damage. You could drop one of the glass bottles from a ten-story building, for example, and it would dent the sidewalk where it hit rather than break. And the artifacts I have shown you so far are all on “lock” mode. Meaning, any inherent magical properties are switched to “inactive.” Iff they end up in civilian hands, it would be very unlikely that anything untoward might happen. Accidently saying the exact words of the arcane spells that would turn them “on” is nigh impossible.

“That’s why old books of spellwork and such, falling into the hands of experimenting teenagers and wannabe witches, can be so dangerous. We are lucky to have folks like Sam Winchester and Bobby Singer in the Hunter’s world. They both love old books and spend their spare time searching estate sales and used bookstores, finding volumes about mythical lore that are more than fiction, buying them, and locking them up.”

Sam blushed. Still the boy glowing under his surrogate uncle’s unconditional love.

Pastor Jim handed the third bag to Mr. Aldrich. It was woven of what looked like silver and purple metallic thread. Solly would have sworn the darn thing twinkled.  
  
The manager opened it, peered in, and shook it upside down. Nothing fell out.

“Empty? Is this some kind of a joke?” Mr. Aldrich asked, as if the cleric was making fun of him.

“Actually, it's one of the most important tools we have,” said Pastor Jim.

“The fabric is fabricated of silk thread shot with pure silver, with the smallest of amethyst crystals attached to the weave. It nullifies bad magic and cleanses the talismans we use.”

Once again, the reverend’s words and respectful tone soothed Aldrich’s whiny five-year old self.

And, once again, Solly was puzzled by his manager’s behavior. He usually wasn’t this difficult at the office.

The issue was status, Solly guessed. Aldrich’s self-worth revolved around how he viewed his relative importance to other people. Knowing his elevated niche in the universe gave him satisfaction and stability. The manager usually was gracious, in a _noblesse oblige_ sort of way, to his coworkers and the rest of the Gimpel employees. Otherwise he would have been fired long ago.

But, working with the team of _Ghostbusters Rebooted,_ Aldrich was lost at sea. The Winchester family and the good Pastor had abilities that apparently trumped money, a gold-plated education, and bloodlines traceable back to the Norman Conquest. Effortlessly, people liked them, trusted them, and followed them.

The law enforcement officers–Pete, Kenny, and Elijah–were polite, but Aldrich could feel that they already had dismissed him as inconsequential. His remark about killing aimed at Sam (taken aback at the tall Hunter’s calm, ruthless answer) had not helped.

Solly hoped his manager was done playing games, but he sensed that the man had one last, stupid play in him. The elderly CEO hoped it would not happen at the risk of the team’s welfare or the success of the mission.

The fourth bag looked like it was stitched together out of everyday brown burlap, rough and ready. Pastor Jim opened this one himself and without ceremony, emptied the contents on the table in front of him.  
  
Silver medallions with chains, all stamped with the same image as the Winchesters’ anti-possession tattoos.

“Okay,” said Pastor Jim, “Please, everyone take one of these and put it around your neck. Note that once you put it on, no one but yourself can remove it.”

“Now, let’s talk strategy.”


End file.
